A Gift to Remember (12 page)

Moving on to the gold Cartier keyring, Darcy inspected it more closely, noticing that the brand’s recognisable double ‘C’ pivoted within a ring of what looked like very
expensive high-carat gold. She let out a low whistle, marvelling at how anyone would spend so much on a simple keyring. But she supposed that if you had money to burn, dropping cash on some kind of
status accessory signalling your wealth was par for the course.

Trying the first key attached to the Cartier ring in the lock, she found herself quickly denied, and peered nervously over her shoulder just to make sure no one was watching her. Permitted or
not, she didn’t fancy explaining herself to any nosy neighbours just then.

Flipping to the next key, she was once again denied access.

Finally, feeling beyond anxious, Darcy selected the third key on the Cartier keyring, put it into the keyhole and turned. To her relief, the lock clicked and gave way.

She went inside and shut the door behind her quickly, again worrying about one of the neighbours calling the cops. Only when the door closed and the house was filled with silence did she stop to
think that she might not be alone.

Even though the hospital had been unable to contact anyone at the house, she decided she should have tried the doorbell first, just in case. What if Aidan Harris lived here with a girlfriend? Or
a boyfriend, a roommate – or even still with his parents?

If so, she could only guess their reaction to Darcy bursting into their home on a dark winter’s evening.

Standing in the hallway, the first thing that caught her eye was the large bouquet of fresh lilies sitting in a vase on a nearby side table, which immediately suggested that a woman lived here.
Darcy couldn’t imagine any man – even Joshua – going to the trouble of putting fresh flowers in his house. The question was, was that same woman – perhaps Aidan’s wife
– here at the moment?

‘Hello?’ she called out, inching forward on the foyer’s hardwood floor. A mirror up ahead caught her reflection, her dark hair tied up in her usual messy work ponytail, purple
v-neck sweater over black trousers, eyes wide and skin pale. ‘Anyone home?’

Her voice, timid yet loud, echoed off the high walls and crown moulding that bordered every inch of the hallway’s white ceiling. Darcy froze, listening. Could hear her breathing.

Otherwise silence.

‘Looks like nobody’s home,’ she whispered to no one in particular, leaning against a nearby doorframe. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed; if somebody
was here, then she could simply be on her way and Aidan (or Bailey) would no longer need her.

But there was no denying that she was curious to see inside this beautiful house, had always wanted to see what a properly restored and lived-in New York brownstone was really like. This could
be her only opportunity to do so. The house she’d lived in with Katherine was a small two-up, two-down Brooklyn townhouse, and of course any apartment she’d ever been in here in
Manhattan was little bigger than a shoe box, and possessed about as much charm. Inside, the house was warm, and feeling a slight bead of sweat run down her forehead from her exertion in cycling all
the way here from the hospital, Darcy brushed the moisture off with her hand and steadied herself, collecting her thoughts.

So, I’m in. Now what?

She put a tentative hand on the door closest to her and was about to venture further into the house before remembering to wipe the slush off her shoes.

She took in the spotless wooden floors and large patterned Turkish rug laid out before her and assumed that there must be a housekeeper or cleaner. No matter, she didn’t want to track in
muddy footprints and cause a mess.

After all, she had already messed things up enough for the guy.

Wiping her feet across the doormat, she continued on inside and for the first time began to really take in her surroundings. Right in front of her, hanging in the foyer not four feet away, was a
rust and blue coloured abstract painting she immediately identified as a Rothko, having seen the artist’s work in MoMA one time. And she was willing to bet it was real. She whistled under her
breath. Just who was she dealing with here?

Darcy peered at the oil painting, trying to imagine the value of this piece alone.

‘And it’s hanging in Aidan Harris’s foyer. Oh my,’ she sighed.

Looking over her shoulder, as if a thief might appear out of nowhere and swipe the painting from in front of her nose, Darcy subconsciously hugged her messenger bag to her chest.

If these people had a Rothko hanging in the entryway of their house, what on earth would they have in the rest of the place?

And then she got to wondering whether the painting might work, if it had some significance or emotional connotations for Aidan. Some people felt that way about art, although admittedly Darcy
wasn’t one of them. She enjoyed looking at it but had never felt the urge to have a piece of artwork in her apartment.

No, if she had that kind of money to spend, Darcy would choose a first edition novel over a painting any day. But if Aidan felt the same way about his painting as she did about books, then
surely this would mean something to him, and he would immediately recognise it? A piece like this, from one of America’s most revered Impressionist-influenced painters, wouldn’t have
been easy to come by, and she guessed the procurement of the painting, or the special occasion or landmark that an expensive purchase would surely represent , would be the kind of significant item
that Aidan needed.

But what was Darcy supposed to do – take a painting worth a million dollars or more and just pop it on the back of her bike and pedal off back down to the hospital in the snow with it?

Not an option.

Unsure where to go next, never mind what she was supposed to be looking for, she spied a doorway at the end of the short hallway which was dotted with smaller but no doubt also original
modernist prints. Trying the handle, the door opened with ease and going inside, Darcy immediately stepped into the kitchen of her dreams.

Not that she was that much of a cook – in truth, she could just about manage to boil an egg – but she adored cookbooks and in particular the beautifully shot photographs of the food
and accompanying pictures of typically gorgeous workspaces.

This room looked exactly like one of those, and Darcy decided that she would do nothing else but cook if she ever lived in a house with a kitchen like this.

Floor-to-ceiling culinary elegance beckoned to her, every stainless-steel and granite surface gleaming pristinely. There was no way she would ever be able to keep this kitchen free of
fingerprints, even with a platoon of housekeepers at her command, she thought, instinctively holding her hands out for fear of touching something. She noted the imported Rayburn stove, and the
glass-doored wine cooler showcasing rows of bottles which she guessed were of a higher vintage than those she usually picked up at the Essex Street Market.

Darcy sighed dreamily as she took in the artfully displayed Cuisinart mixer, funky Alessi fruit bowl and the bevy of other high-end appliances that looked as if they had been plucked from a
display at Williams-Sonoma. Yes, this truly was the kitchen of her dreams – of
anyone’s
dreams. She shook her head dazedly. Even though her own gastronomic speciality basically
required Kraft American cheese, two slices of bread and a frying pan, she knew without a doubt that this kitchen would elevate the simple grilled cheese sandwich to something ambrosial.

She tried to picture Aidan moving around in this space, trying to imagine if he wandered in here at the end of the day once he was finished with whatever he obviously did so successfully at
work. The lack of scribbled drawings on the refrigerator and the absence of any toys in the room suggested it was unlikely any children lived here.

She pictured him pulling open the wine cooler and selecting a Pinot Grigio before choosing fresh ingredients from the fridge and going on to prepare some luxuriously gourmet meal.

She looked to the Rayburn stove, which incidentally had a Williams-Sonoma branded dishtowel (
good eye, Darcy
), seemingly unused, hanging over its handle. She wondered if Aidan grabbed
that dishtowel and threw it over his shoulder as he cooked, the way her own dad used to do when he pretended to ‘help’ her mother at dinnertime.

Did Aidan cook – and if so, what? she mused. The kitchen gave away no hints, at least not concerning what the occupants might have eaten for breakfast yesterday morning. There wasn’t
a single utensil or piece of crockery in the sink, not even a coffee cup someone might have used that morning. The granite countertops sparkled, and actually the entire space looked as if it had
never been used.

Well, maybe they just eat out all the time, she pondered.

But whatever the occupants did or didn’t cook in this room, and whether or not they shared it with children, Darcy knew that at the very least there had to be food in those cupboards for
Bailey. And seeing as one of the reasons she was here was to get the Husky’s chow . . .

Darcy needed to locate the food. Which was why she needed to look through some of his master’s cupboards, and possibly the refrigerator too, no? Because it wasn’t as if there was a
bag of dog food just sitting on the countertop, or any signs pointing out where it might be kept.

Wiping her hands on her trousers, she turned to what had to be a walk-in pantry. To her right was the refrigerator, and while commonsense dictated that dog food would be in the walk-in, she
thought she’d still better look in the fridge first.

Just in case.

She smiled, acknowledging to herself that she was just snooping, but she had to admit that she was enjoying the experience of being in another person’s domain and trying to figure out how
they occupied it. It was a similar sensation to being lost in a story, aware that you weren’t getting the full picture, and feeling compelled to try and work out where it might be headed.

Having justified her curiosity, Darcy opened the refrigerator door and quickly surveyed the contents: several jars of gourmet pasta sauce were lined up on the top shelf, as well as a
cellophane-clad chunk of Parmesan cheese and a small plastic carton containing fresh basil leaves.

Glancing around at the other contents, she spied mostly typical refrigerator fare like milk, mineral water, eggs, butter, sliced meats and some vegetables, as well as a few fancier items like
blue cheese and stuffed olives. They also had a taste for champagne, judging by the half-empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She wondered if Aidan had been celebrating and if so,
what
?

Still puzzled, she closed the fridge and turned to the walk-in pantry. Flipping on the inside light, Darcy spied shelf upon shelf of expertly organised goods and canned foods: a cornucopia of
exotic jars, bottles, baskets and boxes – things like mango chutney, wasabi almonds, sesame flatbreads, hemp oil and maple leaf candy. Clearly these people were among the few New Yorkers who
did not eat take-out every night.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a basket that indicated the residents took regular grocery delivery from Dean & DeLuca. She let out another low whistle. When you were rich,
even the little things like boring old grocery shopping really were so much better, weren’t they?

On the shelf below this, she spied a couple of dog bowls that she automatically assumed belonged to Bailey, as well as rows of organic dog food in cans and a bag of dried kibble. Turning her
attention to the canned food, she selected one labelled
Confit of Duck and Sweet Potato
.

‘Very fancy. I think Bailey might eat better than I do,’ she whispered out loud. Taking out a few cans and the bag of kibble, she laid them on the countertop and looked around for
something to carry them in.

She pulled out some of the nearby drawers and almost immediately found an integrated garbage bin.

Darcy looked inside, wondering if Aidan recycled.
Please make him one of the good guys
.

Sure enough, there were three separate compartments, one of which was a bin with a collection of recently discarded cardboard boxes, cartons and other recyclable material.

Then, thinking of something else, Darcy opened the cabinet beneath the sink and almost immediately found what she was looking for – a medium-sized garbage sack that would be strong enough
to hold the heavy dog food and secure the cans and kibble in one piece on the back of her bicycle. She gave the rest of the contents a cursory glance. All organic cleaning products too.
Good
for you.

So that was the first part of her task completed at least. Now Darcy had to go about finding something (portable) that might help Aidan with his memory issues.

Pictures
, she thought, going back outside into the hallway and trying to make a brief reconnaisance of the rest of the house. Not only were photographs the most likely thing to help
Aidan, but they would also likely clear up any questions Darcy had about the occupants of the house. Namely whether he shared it with an entire family, or just another person.

Going back down the hallway, she tried another door and happened upon a room that looked to be a formal dining area or reception room. She glanced across the occasional furniture dotted about
the place, seeking out photo-frames, and soon hit pay-dirt.

On a nearby sideboard, two framed black and white photographs that looked like as if they might have come from the early twentieth century were positioned on either side of some silver
ornaments. The images were of a man and a woman, perhaps Aidan’s great-grandparents on their wedding day?

A little further down, she came across a smaller cabinet that held some exotic-looking knickknacks: a carved Oriental-style box, an ivory elephant, an African tribal mask and a sculpture of a
man with an embarrassingly large erection. Darcy pinkened, before deducing it must be some kind of fertility statue.

And then – jackpot: a row of photographs of the man she’d crashed into at the intersection, the man now lying in a hospital bed with no clue or memory of his identity.